


Blood and Ink

by giorgiakerr



Series: Inked [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Stanford Era, Tattoos, Wincest - Freeform, fic or die, that's about all you need to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giorgiakerr/pseuds/giorgiakerr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean keeps a tally, a notch etched into his skin for every kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dean Winchester/Moriarty](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/57565) by Daaakota. 



> In my headcanon Dean is covered in tattoos. This is my first Supernatural fic and was inspired by Daaakota's awesome art (link below), and is a lot longer and angstier than it was supposed to be. But seriously you should all go check out her gallery because it's amazing.

Dean keeps a tally, a notch etched into his skin for every kill. He did he first one when he was fifteen. One night when John was out, Dean crept into the bathroom of their motel room. Sam had fallen asleep while Dean watched the muted, slightly fuzzy TV. He waited till his breathing evened out – years of sharing a room had taught him exactly when his dad and his brother had fallen asleep. The first time, his supplies were the bare essentials. Needle, match, ink. It was awkward and painful, hard to keep the thin needle from slipping in his fingers, to keep from burning himself with the hot metal. His first kill alone. He'd earned this.

He fucked up the first time, pricked himself in the side of his index finger, leaving a single tiny black dot. No one ever noticed it. In fact, after Cas brought him back, pieced him together whole, it was gone, forgotten, overlooked. Dean’s still not sure how he feels about that. He kind of liked it, and he’s a little irked that Cas didn’t even notice it. He notices everything else. 

When he was eighteen, the fourteenth scratch mark broke his pattern of waiting, sneaking, pricking, hiding. In front of the slightly dirty mirror, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the little sewing kit he’d managed to wheedle off the hot maid that morning. He placed it on the bench with his new Zippo, a pretty, glimmering little trophy he’d found in a pawn shop a week ago. One side of it was warm where it had pressed against his thigh, the other cold from the night. He flicked the lid open and closed, jumped when the click shut was louder than he expected. He tossed a glance into the other room, making sure Sam was still asleep. He watched him for a few seconds, his small frame illuminated under the one shaft of light coming from the bathroom. He never shut the door all the way. Didn’t want to leave Sam alone and unattended in the dark. Old habits, he supposed.

He lined the bench with his supplies: his dad’s whiskey, an empty pen, the tape he’d taken from the medical kit they kept. Then finally, the small bottle of ink he’d bought off some guy in a parlour a year ago, who’d refused to tattoo a kid, but apparently had no qualms about letting a kid tattoo himself. Self-serving asshole. 

Looking his supplies over, he grabbed some toilet paper and pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth. Wetting his collarbone, taping the needle to the pen, sterilising it – it was automatic but deliberate, a ritual. When the needle was cool, he dipped it in the ink gently. His eyes looked tired in the mirror, skin pale against thirteen harsh black lines that spanned from his left shoulder and ran down, curved along his clavicle. They were small, about half an inch, although he wasn’t really sure whether that was because he expected more, or because the first one had been so painful that he’d stopped before he meant to. He wondered briefly, vaguely, how long it would be before his whole chest was spanned, shoulder to shoulder, like those big gold necklace things kings always wore in old paintings. He wondered briefly, bitterly, whether he’d even live that long. Maybe he should have made them bigger. At this rate he’d be lucky to get to his sternum. 

Shoving the thought aside – today was what mattered, today he’d ganked some ghosty fucker that had been haunting a nursing home – he took a grounding breath. He hissed when the needle punctured his skin. He thought about the ache that had swept through his body when that spirit threw him against a wall earlier, thought about the pride and victory he’d felt when he’d burnt its dirty bones. The short-lived approval in his dad’s eyes, and suddenly the needle didn’t hurt as much. 

As he dipped the needle back into the ink, he heard shuffling behind him. A hesitant noise followed by, “What are you doing?” 

Dean just glanced over his shoulder, not even bothering to make eye contact. “Go back to bed, Sammy.”

He didn’t. Instead, he moved into the bathroom until he had a clear view, frowning a little at the unfamiliar curve of black on his brother’s chest. “Can I watch?”

Dean’s laugh was huffed, but he decided before he really thought about it that it actually wouldn’t bother him. Sam’s cheeks were pink from the warmth of the bed, and Dean could feel the heat edging towards him. 

“Just don’t make any sudden movements, yeah?” It was only half a joke, and Sam sat obediently on the edge of the tub. He waited, unmoving. 

Dean smiled a little at the rumpled hand-me-downs Sam called pyjamas, the stupid long mop that John had told him to cut every other day for a month, the open, sleep-bleary eyes. Dean didn’t even wince when the needle went in again, just released a long breath and took a sip of whiskey he knew his dad wouldn’t miss. 

Neither of them spoke until Dean reached out a hand and asked for more toilet paper to dab away the blood and ink. He flushed it and stuck a small antiseptic band-aid over the fresh wounds. 

Neither of them mentioned it until the next time it happened. It was sort of a routine they had after that. Dad would leave, and Sam would watch. 

Nothing changed until their first job toegher. 

Sam was sixteen – apparently old enough to be left alone with Dean, unchaperoned by their dad. Besides, Dean was a damn good hunter and he knew it. Would never have agreed to take Sam alone otherwise. That night, they’d ganked some ugly-ass hooker-killing creep with the wrong colour eyes and perfect hair. John was still out when they got back to the motel. Hunting, drinking, researching, Dean didn’t know. Tried not to be worried. 

They were both tired and bruised and high. Dean was proud of his brother, and Sam managed a smile because they’d saved the girl and not died in the process. 

“Another one for the books,” Dean announced, digging through his worn duffel until he found his bag of supplies. It was probably a good thing sometimes that John wasn’t an overly attentive parent. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He heard water running, and Sam came out of the bathroom with a towel to his face and water dripping from his hair. John was seriously starting to get pissy about that hair, one of the arguments between he and Sam that didn’t make Dean’s gut twist. It was actually kind of funny. Kind of. Would have been if it weren't so similar to all the other fights they had about everything, constantly. 

Dean started to make his way to the bathroom, but a hand on his arm stopped him. “Let me.”

Dean just stared at him and Sam continued. “Look, your hand just got all messed up in that fight. I saw you, you didn’t even use it to drive home. I’ll do it.” He paused as Dean relaxed a little. He held out his hand. “I’ve seen you do it like a hundred times.” 

Exaggeration aside, Sam was right. Dean’s hand was in no shape for delicate work, having been crushed beneath Perfect Hair’s full weight. He probably had at least one broken finger. He usually did. And it wasn’t like the scratch was _hard_ to do – just dip and stick.

Sam gestured to the edge of one of the beds and flicked on the lamp between them. It was enough light if Dean turned towards it. Sam knelt between his knees, eyes level with Dean’s clavicle. It occurred to Dean how tall Sam was getting; he’d barely even noticed. Dean took a drag of whiskey, the start of the ritual, but for the first time he offered the bottle to Sam. He hesitated for just a second before he took the bottle, face screwed up as he handed it back. Dean took it, watched him swallow. Watched him as he prepared everything methodically, and Sam only glanced up once before dipping the needle in the black ink, and pressing in for the first time.

Dean inhaled sharply, trying not the move his chest too much, and Sam’s free hand found the junction between his neck and shoulder. Fingers wrapped around his nape, thumb pressing behind his ear. It grounded him, although Dean figured it was as much for Sam’s benefit as his own. 

After that, it was just slow breathing and the small slick sound of the needle against the glass of the ink bottle. Dean watched Sam like he was used to Sam watching him: attentive, silent. His fingers flexed in the rough blankets and he wanted to wrap them in Sam’s stupid hair instead. His high was wearing off. He was exhausted, even through the pain in his chest and his hand, and Sam’s deliberate, precise movements made this very surreal. He wanted an anchor. Instead, he stayed perfectly still until Sam was done, focusing on the pain, on Sam's fingernails which dug slightly into his neck on every careful prick. 

Dean's eyes closed. It felt just a little like some burden had been eased. He bit his lip, and let himself be caught up in the sting of the needle, the grip of Sam's hand, the lingering burn of the whisky. He concentrated on the feeling of the needle going in, the resistance of his skin, and he could feel the instant that Sam pushed in fully. 

For the first time it didn't feel like enough. Without his own hand on the needle, he found it hard to gage how deep the needle was going. He opened his eyes again, needed to make sure, thought maybe Sam was trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt him. He watched and counted Sam's movements unconsciously - _six, seven, eight_. 

“Harder.”

Sam looked up for the first time since starting.

“You won't hurt me, Sammy.” He put his hand over his brother's. “It's gotta be deeper, or the ink won't stick.” He'd made the mistake the second time, the mark now slightly faded against the solid black of the others. Before Sam could respond, he centred their hands and pushed in, slowly. When he pulled back, letting go of Sam's hand, they both released a breath. 

Sam's brow was creased a little, his mouth tight on the next push. Sam looked up again, curious. _Perfect_ , Dean wanted to say. He didn't. 

Dean nodded once, his, “Yeah,” sounding more like a pant than a word. Sam's smile flickered and was gone. They finished in silence. 

Sam cleaned him up, handed him a fresh shirt, and they were both asleep by the time John got back, Dean folded into the couch and Sam splayed on the bed. John didn't notice the small drop of ink staining his bedspread before he crashed. They checked out the next day.

It went like this for a year. Dean figured it made sense. When the kills were Sam’s, too, _Sam’s and his_ , the silent celebration, the sobering ritual belonged to them both. 

Then Sam left, and Dean considered adding another scratch to his chest. He ran his thumb along the tip of the needle, blinking back tears, but in the end he tossed it in a trashcan somewhere in Missoula. ‘Dead to me’ was too far. John might be mega pissed, might never forgive Sammy for being a fucking flake, but Dean couldn’t _mark himself_ with Sam’s loss.

So he went back to doing it himself. The satisfaction was still there – one notch meant one less freak in the world, and he was happy to revel in that – but his high never seemed to end, anymore. The pain of the needle, the fire of the whisky – it all just seemed to make his blood pump harder, adrenaline never quite abating. He missed, when he let himself, the reassuring anchor of Sam’s hand on his neck, his steady breaths barely reaching his chest, the _calm_ of those moments. Every notch he made himself was a reminder that he'd made a kill alone. That the one person who should have been there with him, the one person who should have had his back, had up and left the first chance he got. He made them with bleeding knuckles and split lips; with wet eyes and broken fingers, wondering how much pain he could have been spared if Sammy had just _been there_ like he was supposed to. 

But soon enough John disappeared, and Dean finally got to punch Sam in the face, and then they were together again in a motel room was just like every other.

Three days later, the woman in white made her mark on his sternum. And even though there was a now tattoo gun in the trunk of the Impala, Dean handed Sam a small sewing kit and tried to smile. Tried not to look hopeful.

“I’ve seen you do it a hundred times.” 

Unthinking, Dean turned and tossed his shirt behind him. He heard Sam grumble and turned to see him pulling it off his head. His smirk lasted barely two seconds. Sam was staring at him, and his face was… wrong. He looked sad, and angry, and confused, and Dean didn’t get it, until Sam stepped forward and half-reached out. Dean looked down at himself. He hadn’t mentioned the new tattoos. Dean’s upper arms were sleeved, black ink bleeding onto his shoulder blades, down his left forearm, across his chest. Sam reached out, and Dean glared at him, daring. Daring Sam to acknowledge that he’d changed. That it had been a long goddamn time and that Dean was different now, different without him. But Sam’s fingers just hovered over his collarbone, and the way he looked at Dean made him want to punch him right in the face. Again. 

Instead, he just sat down, flicking on the light between the beds, waiting. When Sam finally touched him, it was careful. Dean had forgotten – made himself forget – how good it was to have someone else do this. To have someone else know a kill, know his ritual, know _him_. And he tried to tell himself that Sam didn't know shit, anymore. Didn't know Dean, or John, or what they'd been through while Sam was off drinking lattes and talking about Shakespeare and fucking pretty coeds. He swallowed hard, tried not to move. 

But then Sam’s hand anchored itself to the same spot it used to, like an anchor to the past, and he froze. He barely let Sam finish, each prick full of history and anger, ink and blood. Sam watched the mottled beads of red and black for a few seconds, licked his lips, his hand flexing one more time on Dean's neck. He stood up and placed the needle on the table, angling towards the bathroom – they'd forgotten toilet paper. Before he could move again, Dean stood up, and hauled him forward. His grip on Sam's neck mirrored the grip that had been on his own, that had been absent for two fucking years when he needed it. He thought he tasted blood, thought that it was probably from his own lip from the way Sam was kissing him, and he didn’t care. He wanted to push Sam away, sock him, yell or cry or leave, but instead he tightened his grip. His free hand was in Sam’s shirt, pulling, and Sam’s hands ran down his arms, up as if to touch new skin. As if the tattoos made Dean’s skin different, as if Sam needed to know every inch of it, permanently changed.

Dean sucked in a breath as Sam bit down on his neck, adding his own mark to the new. Dean felt like Sam was trying to make a point, forcing himself into Dean’s new skin, trying to reinsert himself where he’d been erased, to catch up on everything he'd missed. His right hand circled Dean's wrist, thumb pressing into his pulse, into several black lines of Latin Sam didn't need to read. His left hand passed across the stark white skin of Dean's clean collarbone, the space he'd left that mocked them with a future they weren't sure they had.

Sam’s mouth softened slightly when it found his covered clavicle, teeth turning to tongue, and Dean felt vindicated when he thought he heard, “I’m sorry.”

He never said it again. 

When Sam licked a gentle stripe up to his shoulder, Dean almost growled. When Sam sucked at the new tallies, all Dean could say was, “Harder.” He wanted to say, _hurt me_ , _take me back_ , _look what you missed_ , wanted to say everything he hadn't in two years. 

Sam obeyed. And it was so much like before, only it wasn't. Sam's reverence was still there, his movements deliberate and precise, but the gentleness was gone. Instead Sam dropped to his knees and started on his stomach. Saw the tip of something on his hipbone and followed it. He yanked at Dean's jeans, as far as they'd go with his belt on, and Dean felt the burn of denim, the scratch of Sam's fingernails.

They'd never really done this, either, but that didn't seem to matter a whole lot when Sam was shoving into him again, needle forgotten on the table.

Ink and blood stained the sheets of one crumpled bed. They checked out the next day.


End file.
